Sweet Nothing
by Shipperwolf
Summary: He thought he'd buried her. A small, sweet extension of the 3x06 Caryl moment. Spoilers. Rated for language.


**How ABOUT 3x06, huh? Powerful stuff.**

**Needed to fic some Caryl feels, so here's a little jump into Daryl's head during THAT scene (you know the one).**

**Added onto it a bit, you'll find. Just to kick myself and my readers even harder in the feels (with love).**

**I disclaim everything as usual. Enjoy!**

* * *

He thought he'd buried her.

His arm was burning from the constant movement, but he didn't give two shits and a rat's ass. He slammed it down again, _harder and harder_, until his palm stung against the hilt of the blade.

Of _her_ blade.

Carol's knifepoint collided with the filth-covered floor again, sending ripples of painful energy up his arm.

He thought he'd put her out of his mind, for good….

Laid her to rest.

Said his goodbyes.

And then he had to take a good long gander at that Walker, see the handle of her secondary weapon jutting out from its cheek. And he knew she'd gotten farther than he'd thought.

And he knew she'd fought to stay alive.

And he knew, he _knew_, she'd done it alone and was probably currently festering inside one of the swollen stomachs of the rotting corpses around him.

_Fuck. Fuck. FUCK._

The blade hit the wall. He didn't feel it.

He did it again.

Numbness.

Her face consumed his mind, memories of the winter torturing him. She'd started laughing then, just as the frost started setting on the grass every morning. It was more a giggle than a guffaw, and it make him grin every time. She told jokes when they had time to stop and talk.

She took the goddamn time to _talk_ to him.

_And now…_

_Nothing left but a fucking blade and a flower._

In the background of his memories he heard the sound of the old metal door creaking ajar and then falling closed again, a Walker weakly struggling to get out to him. Flying forward he kicked the damn thing as hard as he could, a silent curse on his lips. He whirled around and paced.

Stomped one way, turned and passed the door to stomp the other.

With every step he took the sound of her laughter faded into the annoying creak of that door.

He stopped.

Silenced her most recent giggly snorts in his head.

Jammed the hilt in between his teeth and flew forward and down, all but throwing the dead body blocking the door to the other side of the hall.

Grasped the knife, _her knife,_ and raised it with a snarl.

It would die again, just like she did.

Ripping the door open he first saw nothing.

But he heard it. Breathing. Movement below caught his eye and…

There she was.

God-fucking-dammit, there she was.

Looking up at him. Blue eyes. A rising and falling chest.

Carol.

His hand was on her face before he felt it, cupping her chin to gauge her reaction and ensure she was, in fact, _alive_…

_To ensure she was, in fact, __real__._

The cool blade disappeared into his pants as he bent down to pull her against him, an arm sliding across her back and the other underneath her legs. She was light, a tiny thing, always strong but now suddenly so feeble.

Her clothes were torn.

She was covered in dried blood.

Her eyes opened and closed and her throat released murmurs and groans with every step he took. She was in pain, exhausted and strained beyond even _her_ enduring strength, and Daryl was suddenly gripping her tighter to him, stepping over one Walker, then another, adrenaline pumping into him and a sound being emitted from between his lips and teeth.

"Shhh…"

She groaned again, light but audible, and he felt his head bend down towards her ear.

"Shhh….."

The arm she threw behind his head, across his shoulders, tightened slightly. She was trying to stay awake, talk to him…

He just wanted her to rest, and let him be her strength this time.

"Shhh…"

Her head fell against the crook of his throat and he could smell the blood and sweat and dirt in her hair. He breathed it in and heard her mumble against the skin of his neck,

"Daryl-"

"Shhh; I gotcha, darlin'."

The whisper slipped from his mouth and for several seconds he didn't even realize it. Three steps later she hummed and grasped him tighter, and his brain suddenly hit rewind:

_Darlin'…_

It was just a word, he figured, just a damn term of endearment or whatever the fuck they called it, just something to say to assure her she was safe, to calm her fretful mumbling…

Just a sweet nothing, that meant less than the feel of her living, breathing body in his arms.

But when she gathered her strength and lifted her head to smile at him with those thin, pale, dirt-smudged lips, it suddenly meant something so much more than nothing.

_So much more._

He smiled back and sidestepped another dead Walker. Breathed deep.

_I gotcha darlin'._

_I've got ya'._


End file.
